


Water Won't Clean You

by waitingtobelit



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Attempted Murder, Blood, Crimes & Criminals, Friendship, Gen, Murder, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-13 18:55:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/827676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waitingtobelit/pseuds/waitingtobelit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Montparnasse assumes too much; it comes back to bite him in the ass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Water Won't Clean You

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: Written for my dear friend Julia, who shares my feelings in regards to Montparnasse. Title comes from the Laura Marling song, "Devil's Resting Place."
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with Les Miserables. This was written purely for recreational purposes.

 

He lurks in the shadows surrounding the Musain, a hunger for the ignoble in his lithe step as he devours the crowds passing the dive bar by with his eyes. He caresses the edge of the knife in his left hand with all the tenderness of a lover, simultaneously smoothing back his reckless, black hair with the same amount of care. Above all else, Montparnasse values the way his hair frames his sharp cheekbones and the way the edge of those cheekbones accentuate his rosebud lips. Cloaked in a velvet suit as dark as the night around him, he relishes in the thick, evening air. All debonair, his smile flickers in the shadows in the hopes of catching some ignorant soul’s attention.

He purses his lips as the exiting crowd begins to thin. Each face tapers into cigarette smoke and cheap perfume as they walk past him; he does not yearn to wring a single scream from any one of them. To think, he dressed himself in his best suit for such a mundane outing. He scoffs to himself as he considers relocating to one of his other haunts. 

“Shit!” 

The obscene word flies forth from a mouth exquisitely sculptured, like the marble lips of David. Montparnasse traces from the fullness of the mouth to the constellation of freckles littered across the skin of the clumsy fellow now sprawled on the ground scrambling to reclaim his fallen books. As he takes in the thin frame and auburn hair of the newest convert to the Musain regulars, his own grin unfurls to match his knife’s glint in the ashen moonlight. 

“Need a hand?” He steps forward with one hand outstretched, the other curled around the knife in his left pocket. 

He knows of this young law student, this Marius, mostly because Eponine refuses to shut up about his ridiculous smile and apparent inability to take care of himself. (He can’t count the number of times he’s heard about Marius walking into the door of his own apartment, how charming his eyes are even as his nose bleeds. It makes Montparnasse rather ill. ) His lips curve downwards slightly at the innocent sheen in Marius’ green eyes and the way his grey sweater hangs off his body like a curtain. Gifted with a lack of coordination though he might be, Marius possesses the type of ethereal beauty that detracts attention from Montparnasse’s more refined style of artifice and grandeur. Anger and hunger both simmer in his gut like starving embers as his mouth unfurls in time with images of Marius choking on his own blood. Yes. This one deserves to gradually unravel from his good looks as Montparnasse peels his flesh from his bones. 

“Yes, thank you, I-” Marius reaches to take his hand before fully catching sight of Montparnasse. He withdraws his hand instantly as though it might burn just from its proximity to the taller man. “No, never mind.” 

“Ah, so you have heard of me?” Montparnasse preens like a cat despite his best efforts not to overtly do so. “I’m glad.” 

Marius starts to pick himself up when Montparnasse, quick as fluctuating shadows after midnight, all but leaps, catching the leaner man beneath his chest and slamming him into the wall of the Musain, one arm twisted against his back. Marius wiggles and shakes in an attempt to get free, but Montparnasse, so adept in predicting such a reaction as though it were a science, slams Marius into the wall before pulling the now dazed boy into his chest. As he presses the blade of the knife against the pallor of his trembling throat, he breathes in the scent and sight of freshly spilled blood pooling beneath Marius’ nose. He drags his captive further into the dark of the alleyway so as to remain hidden from sight.

 “Don’t worry, I know you too, Pontmercy.” He murmurs into the other man’s ear, relishing his rapid intake of breath and the way he stills at his knife’s caress. “Know your type. I’ll make sure to send that sweet little lark of yours a note in your blood so that she can find your body in good time. When I’m finished, of course.” 

 “You son of a-” Montparnasse silences Marius’ as the tip of his knife presses against his mouth with a steel kiss, though he does appreciate the surprising spark of spirit to be found in the boy as he continues to struggle against Montparnasse’s hold. For all his frail appearance, this Marius fights with the spirit of one with conviction. Montparnasse cannot help but admire him for that; the ones with belief help sharpen the world in such a way that Montparnasse, from his crevice in the gutter of the underbelly, can appreciate as he drags the idealists down to his level. 

“Ah, ah. Language. You kiss your mother with that mouth?” His grin unfurls with sharklike precision as what remaining color lingers in Marius’ face drains from him. Ah, dead parents; another spot in which to twist his blunt-edged words to augment his victim’s suffering.  

“Don’t worry.” He says as Marius struggles with a new ferocity, like a dying lamb suddenly imbued with newfound life. “You’ll kiss her again soon enough.” 

He drags the knife down Marius’ lips, digging in to draw a tendril of blood before moving down to rest just beneath his chin. This, this is the moment he savors most of all, the panic fluttering throughout his captive like the frantic beating of a butterfly’s wings as the captive resigns himself to his fate. He paints his grin into Marius’ hair as the boy sags in his arms with a sigh. 

Montparnasse makes to scrape the knife across Marius’ neck when a sudden, staggering pull on the collar of his jacket forces him backwards, his precious knife falling to the ground with a garish clang as Marius drops from his arms in a similar manner. Montparnasse’s first thought is the image of ugly scratches in the surface of his most valued weapon, a sin as severe as any dent in his own appearance; he hisses at the prospect just as a fist lands on his face, smashing severely into his nose. 

“What the actual fuck?” He stumbles from the weight of the punch, finding leverage on the wall to his left as he glances up to take in his attacker. 

He tries not to openly gape as he takes in the tall man’s red hair and full lips, draped in rags not even a thrift store could love in various shades of maroon and blue. He looms over Montparnasse with anger clouded in his brown eyes, luminous like thunder ringing out in the dark of the earliest morning hours. This one they call Prouvaire, Jehan, from what he’s overheard of the group’s conversations, catches Montparnasse off guard with the strength to be found in his trembling form. 

“You asshole.” Jehan practically breathes fire as he steps forward. “Get the fuck out of here.” 

As Jehan speaks like a martyr possessed with divine rage, Montparnasse manages to right himself, choosing to ignore the blood gushing from his nose as he maneuvers around Jehan and dives for his knife. A freckled hand spattered with red pulls his prize right out from under his desperate grasp. 

“Looking for this?” Marius, blood gushing from his own nose, dangles the knife in front of Montparnasse as though he were a cat. Anger flushes his face, transforming him like Jehan into a being more than his own fragile appearance. Montparnasse could almost appreciate the wild grace between the pair of them, like the gilded edges of a painting, were he still in possession of his knife to bring the both of them to their knees. 

“Give it here, you sniveling little bastard.” His voice lacks his usual panache, and for that he grows only more livid, his own body shaking as he moves to take what is rightfully his. 

“I think I’d rather go to the police with it, actually.” Marius steps back, bringing the knife to rest behind him. Montparnasse circles him all the while keeping the corner of his gaze trained on Jehan’s still form. If they insist on treating him like an animal, well, he’ll show them the depths of his bestial capabilities. 

“You think the police will listen to you lot after that riot by the hospital last week?” He whispers into Marius’ ear, pushing himself in the leaner boy’s face so as to distract from his arm reaching for the knife. “You’re no better than me, according to them.” 

This time it is the force of Marius’ fist that sends him sprawling to the ground, just as Jehan strides over to his friend, eyes ablaze and fingers twitching with the urge to help. 

“Yeah, well.” Marius leans down and pulls him forward by his collar, close enough so that rivulets of his blood mingle with those of Montparnasse. “We don’t get off on murdering people, so I’d say we’re doing alright for ourselves.” 

Montparnasse laughs in his face. “No matter what you and your friends preach, you’re no better than the likes of me. Same scum, different street.” 

Jehan leans down next to him, eyes glinting like the edge of Montparnasse’s knife. 

“Scum we might be, but as Wilde says, ‘some of us are looking at the stars.’ That’s more than I can say for you.”

 

\---

 

He manages to shake off the two students with a swift kick to Marius’ ankles. Though lacking in his usual flair, he at least took some small satisfaction in watching Jehan and Marius limp away, Marius leaning on Jehan’s shoulder. Amid the chaos, he won back his knife, his heart lightened by the familiar weight of blunt steel in his hold. He pauses briefly to kiss the instrument before continuing on his way, blood dripping from him like ink as he retreats. 

Twenty minutes and one corpse later, he manages to all but stop the bleeding with the torn sleeve of a most unfortunate banker he happened across two blocks from the Musain. He mourns the lack of eloquence in the kill, even as he understands practicality and a lack of time demanded quick and ugly work. On top of everything else about his spoiled night, his favorite suit is now stained, probably permanently ruined. He vows under his breath that Pontmercy and Provauire will pay for their boldness, preferably with spilt blood of their own decorating whatever money they keep on themselves. 

He moves in between shadows to keep himself scarce, hoping for another victim as a means of further stress relief. (Though, even he must admit that two bodies in one night is a tad excessive, even as the thrill of the crime bristles beneath his skin like a miniscule sea breeze.) He is always fast and thorough, in both completing the deed and disposing of the evidence, one of the many reasons why the police still haven’t caught him. (That the cops are bloated, ignorant brutes being the other.) 

Red again drips on to the once magnificent fabric of his suit; Montparnasse curses as quietly as he is able to manage, before a flash of elegant lace in the wind catches his eye. He makes out the full shape of the rose-colored handkerchief before taking in the lovely figure attached to it. Even in the glow of the streetlights, her braided hair shines gold, swaying behind her lilac summer dress, as sheer as the light of the moon over Paris. She appears to him as a doll come to life, the pastel fabric of her dress and her braided hair framing her in innocence and delicacy. Both the lace and the lady prove so exquisite, the urge to ruin them both overcomes him like arousal. He hugs himself close to the wall of the bakery he stands next to as he shadows her movements with his gaze. He follows behind her at a snail’s pace, alert to any opportunity that might present itself. 

The girl pauses just at the entrance of an abandoned alley as her purse trembles with the vibration of a cellphone. She turns slightly as she takes out a smartphone; he grins as he catches full sight of her face. Perhaps Fortune favors him tonight after all. 

Pontmercy’s little lark, darling Cosette, stands before him now, her face impassive as she keeps her gaze glued to the screen of her phone. He waits as her full lips tremble; she brushes a stray strand of hair behind her ear before he pounces to drag her into the shadows with him. 

Like his previous attempts, Montparnasse misjudges Cosette, assuming her as flimsy as the dress she wears. Therefore, slightly tired from his previous excursions, his grip lacks its usual strength and he disregards protecting himself altogether. As he reaches for her handkerchief, her pale hand snaps around his own thin wrist like a vice. He barely has the chance to register such a movement before he finds himself kissing the brick wall of the alley with his teeth. 

“You know, from what Eponine always tells me, I assumed you were smarter than this.” Her voice rings out like a song as she twists one of his arms behind his back, pressing him further into the wall and forcing disdained tears from the corners of his eyes. 

“And from your appearance, I assumed you’d cry prettier too. Ah, well. Wrong on both counts.” She sighs as he squirms. 

“You know nothing of me.” He chokes out as he struggles to get out from under her hold. He wonders what else darling Eponine has told this girl; the possibilities twist like worms in his stomach. “I’d watch out for myself if I were you, spoiled rich girl.” 

“Or you’ll what? Hold your knife to my throat and threaten my life? Repetition doesn’t seem like your style. Granted, not that you really have any style to begin with.” 

The restrained anger in her voice echoes against the skin of his neck as she twists his arm harder. He hates the way she seems to know which exact words to use on him, a reversal of his own technique as he struggles against her. He hisses as he attempts to concentrate on a way out of her hold; he paints scarlet designs across her skin with his jagged nails in his thoughts. 

“What would you know of style? You dress like a child’s doll.” He sneers as she rolls her eyes. 

“Why should I care what you think? You’re despicable.” She rises to his venom with poisoned words of her own, a skill she must’ve adopted from Eponine. He wonders that he never noticed their budding friendship before.   

She presses his face back into the wall. 

“Jehan texted me. I know what you did, what you almost did, to people I care about.” She growls with the ferocity of a mother defending her child. Beneath the porcelain of her outward appearance, resolve glows like steel in the moonlight. Montparnasse thinks he might respect her in spite of the pain running through his arm and damaged face. 

“It’s a good thing I’m damn good at multitasking.” She leans away as she takes out her cellphone once more, dialing with efficiency. “Hello, I’d like to report a crime.”

Her grip loosens just a tad as she speaks. In spite of her own proclamation, she cannot keep Montparnasse from seizing the opportunity to break out from under her arms, flinching at the pull of his aching arm. He laments that he does not have the time nor the strength to repay her in kind for all that she has done to hurt him. 

He does not look back as he flees.

 

 

\---

 

He stumbles into Eponine’s doorway just as she opens the door, dark eyes riled like the fur of a threatened wolf. Eponine means safety, a refuge from the law and the constant reminders of his own failures even as her gaze all but pushes him away. 

“I have nothing to say to you, asshole.” Eponine glares at him as he leans in the frame of her doorway. 

“My dear Eponine, won’t you please let me in?” He is not above pleading when he is with Eponine. “As a favor to an old friend?” 

“You’ve spent the night once, at my father’s insistence.” She folds her arms across her chest, small frame trembling slightly. In the quiet tremors of her body, he understands that he has truly angered her. “And we’ve run some errands together. That hardly qualifies you as a friend.” 

_Oh, it was more than once, no matter what you tell yourself to sleep at night, my dear._ He does not dare to voice the thought aloud, not when she removes her arms from her chest to reveal the knife hidden in her right hand. 

“I don’t mean to intrude, but I am bleeding.” He steps back, slipping his own knife into his jacket. 

“Why should I care after what you did to my friends?” She pins him with her eyes, with such hate she as she usually reserves for her father. Montparnasse oddly finds himself almost chastened by the weight of the emotion in them. He wonders how she turned him so soft. 

“Friends? Really-” He scoffs before she interrupts. 

“Don’t you start. Marius, Cosette, and Jehan are three of the best things to happen to me.” She leans into him, her face twisted into a sneer. “Which is more than I can say for you, bastard.” 

He tells himself how little her words mean to him even as his skin stings from their vibrations falling from her lips. 

“Please. Just for tonight. You owe me, remember? For that time I lied to your father.” 

“I owe you nothing. All debts between us are settled.” Her voice is as cold as the night around them. 

For the first time, he finds himself contemplating her death, an exquisite catastrophe he could easily arrange on the steps of some museum, for a more artistic effect. 

Montparnasse glances behind him when a sudden noise like sirens erupts in the silence between them. When he finds nothing, he turns to find Eponine grinning at him though the weight of her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. After a few more moments of silence, she breaks it like a pebble breaking the surface of a river. 

“You know what, yes, I do have something to give you.” She leans in to whisper in his ear. “A kiss to remember me by,  _darling_.” 

She pulls back her fist and aims right for his bloody nose. The force of her punch propels him off his feet. His eyes close on the beauty of her anger as his body drops to the pavement like a ragdoll.


End file.
